


Sandpaper Kisses, Papercut Bliss

by orphan_account



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Espionage, F/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-08-16 21:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8117650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The Courier's playing a deadly game with the Legion.





	1. Surprise!

From New Vegas to Novac, Novac to Cottonwood Cove, the Courier walks, shadow an Eyebot she repaired. The desert fights her with Radscorpions and ants, but she through them like paper. 

The Mojave sun dips below the horizon as she reaches the Legion camp, sky a picturesque mix of pink, orange, and purple. In another life, she’d pull out a camera and snap a picture of the sunset. For now, though, she’s content with committing the beauty to memory.

Too dark for the ferry, too early for sleep, so Six sits by the fire, cleaning her 10mm. Shadows dance on her gun, bouncing from surface to surface. Smoke’s stinging her eyes, but it doesn't prevent her from finishing. A jammed weapon is an accident waiting to happen. Legionaires watch her out of their peripherals, wary of the woman with a pistol.

Stars peek through the cloudy night sky, moon barely visible behind the expanse of gray. She stifles a yawn as she drags her heavy limbs to an empty tent. A sleeping bag has already been laid out, but she pushes it to the side and unrolls her own. The man who used it before might have had lice—or worse. ED-E hovers outside the tent like the faithful companion he is.

Clothes make for an uncomfortable pillow: Not enough cushion to cushion the hard ground underneath her head. She’d use her pack, but the thought of sleeping on glass bottles gives her a headache. Next time she leaves the city, she’s bringing an actual pillow stuffed with polyester and not boxes of two-hundred-year-old food.

Sleep is elusive, only gracing her with shuteye after hours of tossing and turning. When rays of sunlight trickle into her tent, she rolls onto her stomach and buries her face into the scratchy material. The rest of the camp is awake and bustling, chasing away the ability to rest more. With an angry huff, she rouses herself, gathers her clothes and sleeping bag, and stuffs them into her bag.

It's been twenty-four hours since she last cleaned up and the trip to Cottonwood Cove left her dirty and sweaty. Meeting with Caesar like this is out of the question, so she wanders along Lake Mead, searching for a secluded spot. Stripping for misogynists isn’t included in today’s plans. Or any of her plans, ever.

There’s sufficient cover between fallen boulders and that’s where she undresses, shedding her clothes like a snake sheds its skin. She dips her toes in the water, tests the temperature. Cool enough to provide relief to her sunburnt skin, so Six steps deeper until her entire body is submerged.

After a few moments of watching the water ripple, she scrubs her skin with a bar of soap, traces of dirt and grime trickling into the lake. The blood—some hers, some not—dilutes, turning into a softer shade of crimson, then pink, until it disappears. It’s silent and peaceful and when she closes her eyes, Six forgets that she’s in the Mojave.

Gunfire interrupts her daydreaming, forcibly pulling her mind from the clouds. Hurried movements replace her lazy ones as she finishes her once-relaxing bath. Skin’s still damp as she tugs on her clothes. Hair’s even worse, but none of the Legionaires have a dryer she could borrow.

She tosses her dirty armor into her pack before shrugging it onto her shoulders. No Abraxo or clean water, so her gear won’t be washed for a couple of days. Not ideal, but it beats throwing it away.

“Ave,” Cursor Lucullus calls as the Courier draws near. “Are you ready to travel to the Fort?”

“No, I’m here to get a tan” is what she wants to say—the reaction on his face would be priceless—but she opts for a more respectable response. “Yes, sir.” Six can't help that there’s a hint of sarcasm in the last word.

Only a few hours—Six can handle that. But luck decides she needs to suffer because not a second after she sits down, six other men join her. The one on her left is close enough to touch.

The sunshine reflects off the water, blinding her, so Six swaps her not-quite-prescription glasses for sunglasses, grateful for the polarized lenses. She can’t read now, but that suits her fine. Not like she could concentrate on a novel while emptying her stomach into Lake Mead.

Motion sickness. Of course post-apocalyptia doesn't have promethazine. She wipes bile from her face and her robot lets out a string of beeps in what Six assumes is sympathy. Her hand reaches out to pat ED-E affectionately but is withdrawn quickly as another wave of nausea consumes her.

And that's how Six spends the remainder of the trip: knees digging into her chest, fingers clenching the wooden raft. The Legionaires watch with looks of disgust, unable to direct their attention elsewhere. Apparently Caesar’s men were above getting sick. How she’d love to vomit on them.

When they arrive at the Fort, the Courier has to rely on the cursor for support. Her body is exhausted, legs buckle the moment she tries to stand. It’s embarrassing, being escorted. She clings to Lucullus like it’s her first day of kindergarten and he’s her father, but she certainly makes an entrance. There are whispers on the lips of every Legionaire they pass: those who don’t know of Caesar's guest wonder if she’s a new slave, others remark about her disheveled appearance.

There’s an awkward pat-down to ensure she’s not sneaking in any weapons or banned substances before she’s allowed to continue. It's ridiculous; she can barely stand, let alone fight. They rifle through her pack carelessly, not bothering to fold her apparel. Despite the poisonous words dancing on the tip of her tongue, Six bites her lip. She didn’t endure hours of nausea for nothing.

“I will let Lord Caesar know you will meet with him when you’ve recuperated.” Lucullus says, sitting her down in an empty chair. Doesn’t offer her anything to drink, not even irradiated water, just leaves. She’s got her own bottle of purified water in her bag that she pulls out, so it’s not a problem. Would have been a nice gesture, though.

Her eyelids are heavy from exhaustion and it isn't long before she’s napping.  _ Five minutes, _ she tells herself, but those minutes slip through her fingers like silk and only after an hour does she wake. A puddle of saliva marks the spot where her head was and she wipes away the drool.

She smoothes out the wrinkles on her somewhat formal blouse as she walks. It had been a challenge, deciding what to wear. Combat armor didn’t seem appropriate and the dresses she owned were more New Vegas than Legion. Skin-tight fabric would attract unwanted attention here.

Head high, back straight. Confident strides towards Caesar’s tent. An imposing force if Legion men regarded women differently. ED-E is once again her shadow, but only for a short distance; the son of Mars prohibits her companion from entering.

“Lay a hand on my robot and that’ll be the last thing you ever touch,” she threatens, fixing the man with a cold stare. No time for his response before Six disappears.

Caesar sits in his throne, looking very much like the self-proclaimed savior he is. When she approaches him, he leans forward but does not extend his hand in greeting. “If it isn’t the courier who took a bullet to the brain and lived to tell the tale. You do know why I’ve summoned you here, yes?”

“I assume it has something to do with House’s bunker, my lord.” The words leave a bitter taste in her mouth, but please Caesar.

“Correct. If what Benny says is true, House has stored something important behind the impenetrable doors. So, I want you to take this”—he throws the Platinum Chip to her with a deep scowl—“and destroy whatever’s in the bunker.”

“Yes, my lord.” It’s sickening, talking to Caesar like the god he thinks he is. If she hadn’t thrown up her breakfast earlier, she would have now. But the NCR is relying on her to infiltrate the Legion so it doesn’t matter that she’d rather drink nuclear waste than aid slavers.

Six takes a near-fatal risk when she decides to upgrade House’s securitrons but Caesar is oblivious to her betrayal. He’s even generous—his word, not hers—enough to allow her to choose Benny’s fate.

“Crucify him, shoot him, strangle him, I don’t care. However, there’s another matter you must take care of first: Mr. House. I’m afraid his time—and luck—has run out.”

Caesar’s agenda coincides with the NRC, so eliminating Robert House shouldn't pose any problems. However, nothing is ever that simple. Before she leaves, Caesar informs her that the best of the Legion’s Frumentarii is to accompany her on this and any subsequent task.

Spying on the Legion isn't going to be as simple as the NCR proposed.


	2. Unfinished Business

Six slaps her face, hoping the pain will wake her. Pinches her cheeks, too, when nothing happens. But she’s not sleeping and she’s not dreaming—her nightmare is her reality. She’s working with a murderer, a man who burned down an entire town. The realization hits her hard, like a punch to the gut, enough to make her stomach churn. At least she doesn’t throw up.

Vulpes, for both their sakes, is quiet as they make their way to Cottonwood Cove. He and Lucullus speak in whispers, discussing the new slaves, or 'merchandise'. Six wants to remind them that slaves are people too, but that's an argument she'd never win. The NCR had better appreciate her effort.

The day’s sun is slipping further beneath the horizon as Six and company reach the camp. She delays their trip until tomorrow as they won't make good time during the night. The remaining hours of daylight trickle by slowly, like water forcing its way through sidewalk cracks. The bonfire's burning brightly as Six lays down to rest.

It’s early in the morning when they leave—later than dawn, but most of the world is still asleep as their feet kick up desert sand. Six’s hands fidget with her backpack straps, tugging on a loose string. The silence between her and Vulpes is strange, yet welcoming. Whatever he has to say would likely cause a verbal spat.

They stumble across a gang of Fiends, but the two of them are deadlier than the junkies. Six doesn’t approve of Inculta’s weapon of choice, though; it's too close-range and messy. Blood splatters everywhere, on him and on her as well, as the blade tears through flesh and bone. He does wipe off the crimson with the sleeve of his T-shirt, but Six won't soon forget the look of amusement on his face. And she thought Benny was sick. She repays the favor with her incessant scavenging.

“Is that necessary?” the frumentarius scowls, forcing Six to stop mid-search.

“He’s not going to need it, ” Six counters, continuing her task until the all the clips are empty. She offers Vulpes a plasma rifle, but he declines.

A few bottlecaps richer, they once again walk the roads heading north. ED-E beeps excitedly when Novac’s trademark dinosaur comes into view—the robot’s got fond memories there—but Six keeps moving. Sun’s too high in the sky to stop and New Vegas isn't too far away.

Six doesn't anticipate being chased by Deathclaws, though. The mutated reptiles run them off-course, trapping them in a trailer. Add ‘stuck inside a pre-war vehicle with a killer’ to her list of reasons why the NCR should revere her.

Her Pip-Boy light does little to combat the dark interior and Six nearly loses a finger trying to open a can of Pork N’ Beans. Knives don't make reliable can openers. She passes the expired food to Vulpes who accepts it reluctantly.

“They're fine,” Six stresses after he sniffs the contents. A laugh escapes her throat when he starts gagging and the can reappears in her hands.

“It is a wonder you profligates aren't dead from food poisoning,” Vulpes remarks. He sifts through his small pack and pulls out something that meets his standards.

“Not all of us have the Legion’s luxury.” Her eye roll is lost in the darkness, but he picks up her sarcasm.

“We’re always in need of new slaves.”

Her fingers clench the can tightly, tin digging into the calloused skin. She wants to hurl the beans at him, to smear his face with them, but it would only inflame the situation. Instead, Six flicks on her Pip-Boy’s radio and a man’s voice replaces the tense silence.

“Turn around,” she commands after Mr. Vegas finishes his report. “I need to change.”

It’s a struggle for her to find her pajamas, her bag’s so unorganized. Putting on her sleepwear is also a challenge: Her shirt’s inside out and her pants go on backwards. She crawls into her sleeping bag before giving Vulpes the all-clear.

“I don't suppose you own another bedroll, Courier?” There’s pain in his voice, like speaking to a woman hurts.

“Caesar didn’t pack one for you? Bummer.” There might have been a time where Six was afraid to talk back disrespectfully to a Legionaire, but the desert’s taught her to fear no man. She’s no longer the coward he met in Nipton. “I’d offer to share, but my profligacy might be _contagious_.”

He's quiet this time and she hears him move around the trailer. Even in her faux bed, Six is cold. Something stirs inside her chest—guilt, though she doesn’t understand why—and she tosses a blanket at him. She doesn’t expect a ‘thank you’, nor does she get one, but the feeling subsides. Her radio plays faintly as Six drifts into sleep.

Vulpes is up before her, dressed in Vegas attire. The suit fits him well, better than the Legion armor he typically wears. He catches Six’s gaze and glares at her, daring the woman to say something. A blush crawls up her neck when she realizes she’s been staring at him. The trailer’s too dark for him to notice, though.

Six waits until they reach Freeside to change into her dress—she’s not traversing the desert in heels. It's also an excuse to say hi to Rex, who’s so excited to see her he nearly knocks her over. She’s gone in a minute, though, leaving behind a promise to return.

New Vegas is bustling with visitors, faces Six’ll never see again, people who walk past her without a second glance. That's what she likes: the anonymity, the knowledge that no one cares if she’s ‘Courier Six’ or a street vendor. She loves the Lucky 38 the most, though. It’s quiet and calm and lacks the obnoxious elements of Sin City.

She loves the Strip, but the Lucky 38’s her favorite. It’s quiet and calm; there are no bright lights, no tipsy people. And she controls who enters.

Six leads her companions to the presidential suite, the only place where guest are allowed. “There’s food and alcohol in the fridge, a bathroom to your right, and more beds and pillows than one person could possibly need. I’ll be back whenever.”

Victor, her guardian angel, prevents Vulpes from interfering. With a country accent only heard in movies, the robot informs the frumentarius that ‘only the Courier can see the Big Man’ and to 'please direct any other questions to the nearest MP.’ Six snickers at the thought of Vulpes asking an NCR solider for assistance.

She takes the elevator up to the top floor, the penthouse. House discusses her next course of action, but Six isn't listening. She's thinking of how to deal with her current situation. Frankness, she decides, is best. There's a pause in the conversation and that's when Six says she's here to kill him. House laughs. "My dear, has anyone told you that you have a strange sense of humor?"

"Not that I remember, but then again, I was shot in the head."

Only as his life is slipping through his decayed hands does he realize she was serious. She aims the gun, fingers pulling the trigger and sealing his fate. Like Benny, she killed for a better Mojave. In a way, the two share similarities, but Six hopes that her vision is better for all, not for a select few.

House's Securitrons are already circulating the news of his death and one passes her the obituary. She glances over it in the elevator but doesn’t care to fully examine it. A Nuka-Cola label's more interesting than House’s self-obsessed views. It wouldn't surprise her if he was the one to write it.

“I trust you are finished with your task” is Vulpes’s greeting as the elevator doors retract. Six resists the urge to roll her eyes, choosing instead to toss a piece of paper at him. His eyes scan the content and he continues, “Be ready in ten minutes, for we will be departing."

“No, we’re not,” Six corrects. “You seem to have forgotten you're not the one in charge—I am. And I have other business to take care of first.”

With that, Six heads the room closest to her left, the one with her various outfits and armor. She retrieves the bright blue suits emblazoned with yellow numbers for Sarah. The vault suits are popular with tourists, but Six doesn’t understand the appeal.

Vulpes clamps a cold hand on her shoulder when she’s about to leave. He yanks her towards him, forcing their faces to meet. He speaks in a voice colder than his eyes, tone sending a chill down her side. “Caesar’s orders were clear. I am to escort you back to Fortification Hill immediately.”

Six elbows him, hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. He stumbles backwards and she sweeps his legs out from under him. The frumentarius crashes to the ground. The carpet cushions the fall, but bruises'll still decorate his side tomorrow.

“Touch me again,” Six hisses through clenched teeth, “and you’ll be going back to the Fort in a body bag. As I said before, I have other matters I must attend to.”

The Courier spends the rest of her night floating around the Strip, conversing with the few that recognize her. Anger threatens to consume her so she chases away the constricting feeling with a few shots of whiskey. Cass’s feel-good trick. Six wonders how the other woman is faring but only briefly—once the bartender refills her glass, the thoughts of the caravaneer are abandoned.

She’s not sure what time she returns to the Lucky 38. There’s a clock in her room, but the numbers are dancing, bouncing off the walls, reflecting on the ceiling. Her head’s feels _weird_ and sometimes the room is upside down. Six passes out in the middle of the floor, dress still hanging on her shoulders.


	3. Long Way From Home

There isn’t a part of Six that doesn’t ache, but she continues trudging through the blistering desert. Her body threatens to collapse, the throbbing in her head magnified by the heat, yet she walks, one step then another. Drinking's a mistake, Six realizes too late, especially when she's accompanied by Vulpes. Lesson learned.

Her human companion’s silent, matching her stride for stride. He’s accepted that Six is in charge, albeit begrudgingly. He still glowers at her, etching a permanent scowl on his handsome face. In his society, women aren't in charge. ED-E bobs alongside the Courier, content with the constant traveling. The robot's always cheerier than the legionary, despite being incapable of emotion.

The Mojave’s aggressive today, the winds whip dust in her face and the sand stings her skin. Armor’s great against bullets, but it can’t protect every inch of her body so her face gets battered. She pulls two bandanas out of her pack and ties one around her mouth and nose. The other one’s for Vulpes, but the stubborn man refuses.

“It’s not soaked in chloroform, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Six snaps, red and black fabric dangling from her fingers. “And I don’t have cooties, either.”

He’s resolute in his answer, leaving the cloth in her hand. The man would bleed to death before accepting anything from a woman. She snorts dismissively as she returns the spare bandana to her backpack. He can have his bloody noses and dry throats; it’s no longer Six’s problem.

With noon comes the blunt of the Mojave sun, bright rays like daggers piercing her skull. Sunglasses ease the awful headache, but it’s too much for the woman. Six collapses into the sand, vision blurring then fading altogether. At least the ground’s more comfortable than last night’s bed.

It’s pitch black when the Courier is conscious once more. Her surroundings are indistinguishable and unfamiliar—the ground beneath she lies on is cool and metallic, unlike the desert.  Her body feels strangely weightless, as though she’s lighter than a cloud. She tries to move her hand, but nothing happens. Her legs are immobile, too. Six wonders if she’s dead and laments that she never said goodbye to her friends.

A wet cloth touches her forehead and the Courier bolts upright, startling the man holding it. She’s not dead, not yet, and the realization puts a smile on her face. Silence prevails as she processes what happened: one minute she’s walking, the next she’s waking in an abandoned shack, sunlight filtering in through the dirty windows.

 _Heat exhaustion,_ Arcade reminds her. She wishes he was the one taking care of her, despite the lecturing she’d receive. But doctors are a rarity in the desert and Arcade’s too talented to be trailing after the Courier. How’s he supposed to save people if he’s constantly taking care of clumsy Six?

“How long have I been out?” Tongue’s like sandpaper when she speaks, mouth drier than the desert. It comes out like a croak. Vulpes—Six had been too disoriented to remember his name—merely shrugs. Time doesn’t hold as much importance out in the middle of nowhere, not when there more pressing matters, like food and shelter.

Her exhausted limbs resists, but eventually she manages to sit up. A fit of coughs racks her body and snatches the air from her lungs. She's pushed herself too far, it seems. Vulpes passes her a bottle of water, which she accepts greedily. It’s warm, but Six is too thirsty to care; the liquid is soothing and the urge to cough recedes.

“We need to leave,” Vulpes decides. Six swished the remaining water around, contemplating his statement. Arcade begins to laugh at her medically inferior companion and Six’s lips curl upwards. She's going nowhere, not until she's properly hydrated.

“Not until the sun goes down.”

“I didn’t know you had night vision, Courier.” It’s coated in venom, but Six laughs. Of course she can, to some extent. The Courier reaches for her bag—it’s much heavier in her current state, so it’s a struggle—and pulls it to her. Her hand slips into a side pocket and procures a jar of Cateye.

“Technically, no. But with these I can. Besides, we have ED-E.” He balks at that, staring down Six like the heat fried her brain. It might be humorous, had she not been serious. But Six isn’t going anywhere with the hot sun high above the clouds. Too dangerous. “Or we wait here for a few days.”

Neither option appeals to Vulpes, that much is apparent. The grimace on his face is more vocal than whatever he may say. Six isn’t excited to travel in the dark, either. Predators prefer the shadows. Coyotes, Night stalkers, ghouls—they thrive at night. Humans don’t. But the sun’s deadly to her, so she’ll walk under the crescent moonlight, using the stars as a guide.

“You could just meet me at the Fort,” Six suggests. His answer, a firm “no,” doesn’t startle her in the slightest. It’s what she was expecting. “Then it’s settled. We’re leaving at sunset.”

“Fine,” he acquiesces after a moment of thought, tone colder than his icy blue eyes. It should be intimidating, his response, but Six knows he’s not a threat. Not if the Legion needs her help. It’s also amusing, ordering him around. The role reversal irritates him and Six revels in it. What could be better than revenge?

There’s a part of her, though, that pities him. A section of her brain that acknowledges his upbringing as the reason for his behavior. The life he’s lived is acceptable because it’s all he’s ever known. It doesn’t excuse his actions—murder is never admissible—but Six can’t help but sympathize with his predicament.

They've got time to kill, so Six slips on her glasses and grabs a comic from her bag. The edges are torn and the colors are faded, but the figures are still visible. As her eyes scan the pages, she wonders if the characters once existed. It’s possible, given her lack of old world knowledge. Humans created super mutants, so a lizard man seems conceivable.

Vulpes stares out the lonely window like he has the power to force the sun below the horizon. He's concentrating hard, but she doesn't bother telling him it won't work. It's entertaining to watch him glare at the sun. When it finally sets, he’s already waiting at the door. _Claustrophobic,_ Six muses. Wild animals despise enclosed spaces and Vulpes, despite his human appearance, reminds her of a wolf.

Six struggles to her feet, swaying as though she were still drunk from the previous night. Her walk’s still wobbly, like that of a newborn Brahmin, but a few steps forwards and her normal gait returns. The outside air is cool, weaving its way through her hair without the earlier brutality.

It only takes an hour for darkness to shroud the land, leaving the group blind despite the map on Six’s wrist. The moon’s a sliver in the sky, barely visible against the night’s sheer black sky. An old and battered gas station functions as their shelter. They kick up a month’s worth of dust and dirt while blocking the entrance with a metal shelf and Six is still sneezing long after it settles.

They’ll be lucky if they make it to the Fort before the month is up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Life has a tendency to get in the way of writing.


End file.
